


Laptops and Lattes

by secretsidgenowriter



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Author Sid, Barista Geno, It's so Meta, M/M, Writer's Block, non-hockey au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 16:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20312188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsidgenowriter/pseuds/secretsidgenowriter
Summary: Sid taps his fingers against the keyboard, hard enough to hear the keys click beneath the pressure but light enough that nothing is actually typed.Story of his life right now.





	Laptops and Lattes

**Author's Note:**

> Written in a fit of writer's block while I struggled to get through Wide Open Spaces.

Sid taps his fingers against the keyboard, hard enough to hear the keys click beneath the pressure but light enough that nothing is actually typed.

Story of his life right now.

The cursor blinks at him, mocking him in a way that makes him want to throw his laptop off a bridge then dive in after it.

At least then he’d have an excuse for not writing.

He sighs heavily and looks down at his empty plate. Before he does anything he’s going to get another cinnamon roll.

He eyes the line at the counter, four people deep, and thinks about waiting it out a bit then the bell rings above the door and three women come in and he’s out of his chair like someone lit a fire under him.

He slides into line right in front of them and ignores their dirty looks in favor of keeping an eye on his computer and bag set up in the two person booth in the far corner.

He’s set up shop here, in the coffee shop two blocks from his apartment, every day for the past two weeks hoping to get something accomplished. Things had been going well. He was on a roll, the words flowing out of him and onto the screen. Emotions, plot, conflict. Everything was coming together.

Then he hit a wall and the confines of his office got to be too much to bear. The ticking of the clock on the wall got to be too monotonous and the soft chatter he heard through the walls from his neighbors too loud and he had to get out.

He figured maybe a change of scenery and a constant supply of freshly baked goods and caffeine would help him out.

It hasn’t. He’s only written a small handful of paragraphs since making the change but he’s eaten his weight in cinnamon rolls and he’s constantly jittery from the lattes he’s been throwing back.

The line moves quickly as the baristas behind the counter work together like a well oiled machine and when Sid steps up to place his order he comes face to face with his favorite one, a tall guy with sleepy eyes with Geno written in blocky letters on his name tag.

“Sid,” Geno smiles as he leans on the counter. “Cinnamon roll was good today?”

“They’re always good,” Sid tells him and Geno’s smile grows impossibly wider. “Can I have another and another coffee too?”

“Do you want roll heated,” Geno asks, but he’s already moving toward the small heating oven that’s kept up front to warm the pastries. Sid’s found that Geno is the best at it. He leaves it in just long enough that the frosting gets gooey but the cinnamon sugar filling doesn’t burn Sid’s fingers when he tears into it.

It’s a skill that Sid’s come to appreciate.

“How is work going,” Geno asks when he turns back around to get started on Sid’s latte and Sid shrugs and pulls out his wallet.

“I don’t know,” he lies because he does know. It’s going terrible and he kind of want to curl up behind the counter and cry while Geno hand feeds him expertly warmed cinnamon rolls. “It’s fine.”

Geno looks like he’s about to say something else but the timer dings on the oven just as he’s finishing the foam art on the top of Sid’s latte.

Sid pays and drops the change into the tip jar. He assumes Geno specifically needs it. He always seems to be working, here before Sid comes in and still there when Sid finally gives up and goes home.

“Enjoy,” Geno says as he hands over the plate and the mug and Sid gives him an anxious smile. He really doesn’t want to go back to his table where all he does is accomplish nothing.

“I always do,” Sid tells him then turns on his heel and heads back to his booth.

Sid doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. It’s never been like this before.

All his life writing had come easy to him, natural. He’s had to work at it, writing page after page of fiction and nonfiction trying to find his voice and his style, but even that didn’t seem like too much trouble. He can whip out a thousand words in five minutes. He can weave backstories and plot lines and conflict and resolutions together in his sleep.

He’s had writers block before. He’s pretty sure everyone has but in the past it’s been fleeting. There and gone and when it was over and the words were flowing again he almost felt like laughing at the dramatic shit he had thought, like how he’d never write again or how everything he’s ever written was actually terrible, but now, Sid doesn’t feel like laughing.

Now, it feels like there’s this prickle under his skin growing stronger and stronger with every word that he doesn’t write. It’s frustrating not to have the words because the words are right there, they’re right in front of him in notes hastily written on napkins or in the old, leather bound journal he keeps in his bag in case he gets an idea while he’s at the grocery store or walking home. Between the notes and the ideas in his head everything was there. The beginning, the middle, and the end. He even knew what the last lines were going to be but for some reason he could not bring himself to sit down and actually type anything out.

So Sid comes here, to The Roasted Bean, and sits in his corner booth and eats cinnamon rolls and drinks coffee and watches Geno wipe down the counters and tables with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows–

Sid shakes his head and tears his eyes away from Geno who is now leaning over one of the tables and unknowingly giving Sid a perfect view of his ass.

That’s not what he’s here for.

-

Sid only gets a few steps inside The Roasted Bean before he freezes.

There’s a man sitting at Sid’s booth in the back corner. The guy looks like he’s been there for awhile which is crazy since the shop only opened fifteen minutes ago. He has a mug of coffee by his elbow and a half eaten cruller on the plate in front of him and he has his laptop out and his glasses on and he’s tapping away at the keys like he’s doing one of those timed Mavis Beacon typing lessons.

It’s gaudy and braggy and Sid feels like his eyebrows are going to permanently fuse together with how hard his whole face is frowning.

“Excuse me?”

A voice comes from behind and Sid almost jumps out of his skin as a woman slips past him on her way up to the counter.

Sid hikes his computer bag up onto his shoulder and stares daggers at the man in his seat as he steps up to the counter and waits in line. The man of course doesn’t notice, too swept up in whatever brilliant thing he’s writing to look up.

Sid will have to find a new place to sit or, a new coffee shop to sit in. It’s not like those are hard to find around the city. There’s a Starbucks within throwing distance and some hip, all natural tea shop just around the corner that always seemed a little pretentious to Sid before but maybe that’s just what he needs.

But the other coffee shops don’t have Geno and his charming accent and sleepy eyes and rolled up sleeves.

Geno isn’t the one to take his order this morning. Instead it’s Arthur, who wears thick rimmed glasses and vintage t-shirts with bands that only hipsters have heard of on them. He’s nice but he doesn’t heat the cinnamon roll for long enough so Sid skips that and goes with a maple glazed donut to go with his coffee instead.

He doesn’t want to share a table with anyone or sit too close to the bathroom or the door so that only leaves the short counter with bar stool seating beside the register open.

It’s not ideal. It’s much too close to the center of action for him to concentrate but it’s not like he has another option. Plus this way he’ll have easier access to refills.

He gets himself all set up, laptop, notebook, pens all spread out in front of him then opens up his document.

It looks exactly the same as it did when he closed out of it yesterday. No one hacked in during the night and wrote a couple of dozen paragraphs for him.

With a sigh he takes a bite of his donut and a sip of his coffee and tries to write.

He’s written six sentences, finished his donut, and is halfway through his second coffee by the time the early morning rush settles down and Geno can break away and comes to talk to him.

“You in different spot, today,” he grins and Sid gives him a forced smile.

“My other spot was taken,” Sid says, looking over his shoulder at the man who is still, somehow, typing. “But this is fine.”

“Closer to treats this way,” Geno says with a wink and Sid nods.

He’s also close enough to see the deep chocolate color of Geno’s eyes and smell the spicy scent of his cologne.

“How is book or movie…schoolwork?” Geno shrugs and gestures to the computer. “Whatever you working on.”

Sid laughs. He’s not really working on anything. “It’s a book. Or it’s supposed to be.”

“You write books,” Geno asks, perking up with interest. “Anything I read?”

“Um. You’re not really my key demographic. Maybe you mom has or if you have a sister or girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Geno says, drawing the word out dramatically. “I see. Not good to stereotype, Sid. Men read romance novels too.”

“They’re not romance novels,” Sid says quickly. “They’re not. I mean, romance is in there but they’re not what you’re thinking off.” Big, muscle bound men holding dainty woman in revealing turn of the century dresses. He shudders at the thought. To each their own, but that’s not what he writes. “They’re beach reads, I guess is what you’d call them. Just easy, fun, stupid stories.”

Geno leans down against the counter in front of Sid. “Bet they’re not stupid.”

Everything feels stupid right now. “They’re not War and Peace or anything like that. They’re just…I don’t know. Fun.”

“Don’t look like you’re having fun now.”

Sid sighs heavily. He’s not. He’s really, really not.

“What is this one about,” Geno asks, trying to peer over the top of the laptop to get a peek at the screen.

Sid angles it away from him. “I don’t know.”

“Haven’t started it yet?”

“No, no, I’ve started it.” He’s fairly deep into it. “I just don’t know what it’s about anymore. I used to, at some point, but I have no idea now.”

Geno frowns, deeply, and Sid feels even worse about himself. “Can I help,” he asks.

“Uhhh.” Sid blows out a breath and rubs the back of his head with his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t really know how anyone could help. It kind of feels like a lost cause at this point.”

“I’m not writer,” Geno says, “but I think maybe figure out what it’s about is first step.”

“Yes, thank you for the tip,” Sid snaps then immediately regrets it. Geno’s just trying to help him out. “I’m sorry. That was-.”

Geno puts his hand up to stop the apology. “Is okay. Maybe I overstep.”

“No. You’re definitely right. Figuring out what I’m writing out should be the first step.”

“Harder than it sounds,” Geno asks softly and Sid nods, staring at the computer screen as it dims. He looks up when Geno touches his arm. “Will be okay. You’ll figure it out.” He gives Sid a smile and steps away to help a customer.

It feels nice to have someone believe in him.

-

“It’s about finding a home in a place you’ve never even been before.”

Geno blinks at him, the ‘_good morning, Sid’_ dead on his lips.

“And it’s about falling in love when you least expect it. I guess.”

Sid had stayed up for most of the night trying to pin those two points down and if Geno wasn’t the first barista to get to him when he stepped up to the counter he would have climbed over it just to say it to his face.

“That’s what my story is about,” Sid tells him. “I just wanted you to know.”

Geno nods slowly, like he’s still trying to figure out what the hell Sid is talking about. Sid is just one customer out of hundreds that visit the shop everyday. Geno seems like a nice, friendly guy. He could have a hundred different conversations with a hundred different people. There’s no way he remembers them all. Sid’s not anything special.

“Maybe will be easier to write now,” Geno finally says and Sid feels like he can breathe again.

“Maybe,” he says back. “It’s a start at least. Can I get-.”

“Usual,” Geno interrupts with an easy smile. “Of course. Table is open today.” Geno juts his chin toward Sid’s regular booth in the back. The man from yesterday isn’t there today and the booth is open and waiting for him. But so is the bar stool that Sid sat at yesterday.

“I’m actually going to set up here if that’s okay,” he says as he sets his laptop case down on the counter. “Different energy up here than in the back.”

Geno smiles like Sid’s just shared a secret with him. “Whatever you like, Sid,” he says, then turns around to stick the cinnamon roll in the oven.

-

Sid struggles through the next few days, writing and deleting and writing again. He edits extensively then hits the undo button at the top of the document and puts everything back to the way it was before.

He develops a headache, either from the sugar or caffeine or the frustration of getting absolutely nowhere that lingers and lingers and all he can do is pop another Advil and wash it down with another coffee.

He suffers on his own until a piece of lined notebook paper floats down in front of him and lands on the keyboard.

When he looks up Geno’s standing in front of him smiling.

“Last night I google how to help with writer’s block,” Geno starts and Sid picks up the paper. There are a dozen different words written on it, none of them having anything to do with the others.

“Internet says that best way is to get mind off what you are working on and think about something else. Write something new. I think that makes sense, you know, when I’m baking–.”

“Wait, you bake?”

Geno rolls his eyes. “Who you think makes cinnamon rolls every morning?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Sid shoots back. “That make sense though, you know, why you’re here every morning.”

“Would be bad if owner of shop didn’t show up for work.”

“You own this place!?”

“Yes, Sid. Way too caught up in computer.”

“I’ve been tipping like crazy because I thought you needed the money because you were here all the time.”

Geno laughs. “I know. Employees love you for it. You favorite customer. Anyways, I think tip makes sense because when I can’t get recipe right I move on to something else. Make cookies or brownies, clear my head of problems. Then, when I come back, new recipe works again.”

“So what do you want me to do with this?”

“I think of words while I mix frosting this morning now you write.”

“I can’t write though.”

“You can write just like I can still bake. You just stuck. Try this. Don’t have to be long or good-.”

Sid snorts. “Oh, they’re not going to be good.”

Geno rolls his eyes. “Just write.” He taps the counter with his fingertips. “Trust me.”

Sid sighs and scans the list. It’s a jumble of meaningless words. Flowers, trucks, flamingos.

He has no idea what to do with this.

“Hey.”

He looks up to find Geno miming typing on a keyboard and rolls his eyes. Then, he backs out of the document and opens a new file.

He supposes it wouldn’t hurt to at least try.

By noon, Sid is halfway through the list.

He writes about a florist that falls in love with the tattoo artist in the shop across the street, a couple of lumberjacks in the 1950’s and a break-up and eventually a reconciliation.

They’re a mess, sloppy and unrefined and nothing that he would ever let anyone else read but it’s proof that he can still write and that feels amazing.

He’s just finishing up a story about a merman and a lighthouse keeper for the word ‘shell’ when he looks up and realizes he’s the only person in the shop. Even Geno is gone from behind the counter.

He checks the clock in the corner of the screen and is shocked to find that it’s past closing time. Somehow he’s gotten himself locked in and left behind.

“Um.” He slides off the stool and looks around. The floor has been swept and the chairs are up on the tables. “Hello?”

There are footsteps and then the door that leads to the back swings open and Geno sticks his head out.

“Hey. You finish writing?”

“Everyone is gone.”

“Yes. We close twenty minutes ago.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Wouldn’t have left you here when I left but you looked busy so I let you work. You finish?”

“Yeah, but–.”

Geno steps fully through the door. “Can I read?”

Sid immediately shuts the laptop. “No. I don’t let anyone read what I write until I know it’s perfect. Even then it’s torture to send it to my editor. Sorry, but no.”

“Okay,” Geno says, “is okay.” Then he asks “do you want to come back and help,” at the same time Sid says “I should probably get going.”

“I don’t know anything about baking,” Sid says and Geno shrugs and holds the door open.

“Is okay. I don’t know anything about writing.”

The inside of the kitchen is warm and clean and smells like melted butter and cinnamon.

Geno makes Sid wash his hands then hands him a bowl and tells him how much sugar and spice mix to add.

“Mix together,” he instructs. “I roll out dough, pour on butter, then you add sugar.”

They work in silence for awhile, Sid mixing the sugar and spices together while Geno rolls out the dough. There’s flour on his apron and Sid likes the way the muscles in his arms bunch together when he sweeps the rolling pin across the dough on the slab of marble in front of him.

It’s soothing, watching him work, and something about it loosens the ever present knot in Sid’s chest.

“I’m worried it’s boring,” Sid admits softly and Geno pauses for a moment before he keeps working. “I’m worried that people won’t like it and it’ll fail. It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid because I actually really like it, I think it’s a good story and people really will like it but there’s this huge part of me that can’t stop thinking that people will hate it. I can’t shake that and it’s messing with me. I’ve never felt like this before. I don’t know what to do.”

Geno puts the rolling pin down and nods to Sid. “Right now you spread sugar on dough then you help me roll it up. After, we cut and let it rise overnight. Tomorrow I come in and bake then you come in and eat. Easy. Sorry I can’t help with writing. I wish I could.”

“You did though,” Sid tells him. “You got me writing today. That’s a huge deal. I wrote more today than I have these past few weeks combined. Thank you for that.”

“All I do is write words on paper. You do rest. Sid, you will get over this. Know you will. Thing are hard now and you have doubt but you’ll pull through. It will be okay.”

“And if it isn’t? If I never get this story finished and I can’t write anything worthwhile ever again?”

“Then I give you job here,” Geno says simply and Sid throws his head back and laughs. “Already learning how to make cinnamon rolls. Will be very good assistant.”

“Well at least I have a back up plan,” Sid says and spreads a handful of sugar onto the buttered dough.

When Sid gets home he finds that he can’t fall asleep.

His fingers itch to type and his head is swirling with ideas and after he showers and changed into his softest pair of sweatpants he gives in and opens a blank document.

-

In the morning he drops a stack of papers onto the counter before Geno can even greet him.

“I wrote something else,” he says.

“Is what you’ve been working on,” Geno asks, staring down at the stapled pile like they’re going to catch fire.

“No. I’m still really stuck on that. This is something different. This is about a hopeless writer and the owner of a local coffee shop who the writer slowly realizes he has a major crush on.”

Geno looks up at him suddenly and Sid takes a deep breath. He can’t lose his nerve now.

“It’s short and not proofread and the end is a little rushed but I think the emotions are there. I hope they are anyways. I want you to read it and I want you to be honest with me about how you feel about it, even if you think you’re going to hurt my feelings. I want you to tell me what you think. You don’t have to do it right now, I know you’re busy.” Sid can feel the line growing behind him. “But I’ll come back tomorrow, okay? I think today I’m going to walk around a little bit. Try to take my mind off sitting in front of a computer. I think that’ll be good for me.”

Geno nods and finally reaches for the paper. “Is probably a good idea. You come in tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Sid assures. “I promise I’ll be back.”

-

Sid spends his day walking along the river. It’s warm and sunny and he likes the way the heat feels on his skin.

He tries not to worry about Geno’s reaction. It’s possible he read everything wrong. Maybe Geno has a girlfriend at home or a wife and kids. Maybe he has a boyfriend or a husband. Maybe he’s just not interested. He figures any of the above could be a possibility but there’s still hope that he could feel the same way.

Either way he won’t find out until the morning so for now, he tips his head back into the sun and closes his eyes.

-

When Sid walks into The Roasted Bean the following morning Geno isn’t behind the counter.

He doesn’t appear from the back while Sid’s waiting in line and by the time he makes it to the counter he’s still nowhere to be seen.

Sid’s been coming here for nearly a month now and this is the first time Geno’s been missing.

It’s too big of a coincidence that it just happened to be the day after Sid handed him a story about having feelings for him. It has to be related. Sid scared him away from his own shop.

He orders a coffee but stops Arthur before he can grab him a cinnamon roll.

“I’m not feeling very hungry,” Sid tells him, “and can you make my latte to go?” He doesn’t want to stick around.

Sid is halfway down the block with his coffee when he hears his name being called.

Geno’s running up the sidewalk behind him with a small paper bag in his hand.

“Sid,” Geno pants as he catches up. He waves the bag at him. “You didn’t take cinnamon roll. I pull fresh from oven for you.”

“I didn’t order one. Listen, Geno, I don’t want to bother you anymore so if you don’t-.”

Geno shuts him up with a hand on the side of his face before he leans in and presses his lips to Sid’s.

“Read what you wrote,” Geno says when they pull apart. “Think it was perfect.”

“It really wasn’t,” Sid says, “it was rushed and unorganized and I can do a lot better–.”

Geno kisses him quiet. “Perfect.”


End file.
